Devil's Snare

Title: Devil's Snare

Rating: R

Word Count: 636

003: Red

Paring: Harry/Draco

Summary: Harry is told to bring Draco to the light side of the war at any cost. Post-HBP, HPDM!D/s, dubious consent, Post-Hogwarts, war!fic.

Disclaimer: Unoriginal characters and situations belong to JKRowling. No copyright infringement is intended.

Table of Contents found at http://www.livejournal.com/users/mahoganyhandle/9713.html

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Harry squirmed in his seat and fingered the rim of his glass of Firewhiskey. He garnered stares from the other patrons of the club, who were all sitting back in comfy chairs smoking cigars or imbibing Ambrosia and gossiping. The more they stared, the more Harry rubbed at the garish mark on his face. He wondered if they were staring because they knew what the imprint indicated, which spell had been used on him and why he once again ventured into their midst.

A hand clamped on Harry's shoulder, and Harry practically leapt out of his chair in his efforts to get away from it. He couldn't bear to be touched in this condition. Any pressure made the burning flare and the itching intensify. Harry could barely stand to get dressed these past few days.

"Mr. Potter," said the hostess, giving him an odd look. "Mr. Malfoy asked me to escort you to the Garden." Nodding, Harry rose and followed her up a set of stairs that led to a darkened balcony. From here they went down a long corridor until they came to a door at the end. Melodious notes of music drifted through the door, carried along with the sound of laughter. One laugh stood out painfully in Harry's memory.

Harry went through alone. As the hostess hurried away, Harry got the impression that whatever could be found on the other side of that door greatly unnerved her. Steeling himself, Harry knocked and entered.

Malfoy sprawled across a white chaise lounge with a long-haired black fur draped over its back. There were two others in the room: one, a short, stout witch with fiery red hair pulled into a sleek chignon, and the other, a dark-haired little girl, curled up on the red-haired witch's lap. Harry hadn't expected this. Malfoy, guessing at the source of Harry's hesitation, smirked.

"Back again so soon, Potter? Come to beg me for another chance? If so, I think you ought to know that I don't do second chances. But try me, if you like."

"I didn't come for that. I came to make you take this blasted curse off of me." Malfoy's gaze shifted to the little girl and he stiffened, sitting up.

"Caroline, it is long past time for Bella's nap."

Rising, the woman swept the protesting girl, who was perhaps five or so, into her arms and hurried out. Left alone, Harry approached Malfoy, scowling balefully. Malfoy sat up and pulled out his wand. Harry watched him warily, uncertain whether Malfoy would try another hex, and feeling at a distinct disadvantage.

"Expio," Malfoy said, tapping his wandtip at Harry's hand. Off a sudden, the burning itch faded away, and Harry sighed in relief, feeling all of the tension flooding out of him. He closed his eyes a moment, savoring the feeling, until he heard Malfoy shifting impatiently. "You may go," he announced dismissively.

"Why did you do it?" Harry asked, pinning him with a curious stare. "You knew that I'd eventually figure it out and come back here."

Malfoy shrugged. Harry noted that he seemed very careless. "I wanted you to feel what you are, Potter. Now every time you think of bothering me with another of your ridiculous propositions, you will realize why you'll never win me over." He smiled then; it was oddly mirthful. "When we were back at Hogwarts, did you know why your house colors were what they are?"

"No," Harry answered, narrowing his eyes distrustfully.

"It is because red is the color of blood, Potter. It is what defines us, what makes me a Malfoy and you a Potter, what makes you dirt and me pure. Godric Gryffindor spent his life shedding blood, you know, and by the end he learned to love seeing what makes us each what we are."

TBC